I am Christopher Kipsetim Kimosop, a male adult of East African stock. I interact with young adults and big babies aged between 14 and 20 for at least 9 out of 12 months of the year. It is always fun working with them though they have an immense capacity to really make you mad without warning.

When father recounted to us how he was mesmerized by Great Britain during his only visit in 1973,he held us children in awe…

He was in the company of some upcoming Kenyan pseudo intellectuals brought together in the spirit of benchmarking of sorts. I’d rather visualize them as a bunch of upstarts.

Dad always fancied himself as an instrument of progress.
Because of this self imposed mission as an agent of what should be ideal for his family, his children, he made life really hard for us,for me. His sense of proper character and good manners was really a pain to bear. Constantly dreading his come back home from wherever he always went for so long.

When he passed on during my teen years( I was only 16) I didn’t feel the loss. Everyone who was connected to him and our home was in tears. Much as I tried to look aggrieved, the tears could not flow, the eyes refused to water. My heart was in a celebratory mode. I strangely felt relieved of a heavy burden in my life. A kind of good riddance.

Incidentally he left so many unfinished businesses…loose ends.
I sometimes wonder about the parallels I have with him. Now at 47,I have so many incomplete projects, conjured ideas yet to crystalize, to be delivered. My true potential is yet to be delivered. I only hope that so far I am not a burden to my 4 angels. The first one is16 plus 1.

Over the last few days I came across some pretty engaging stuff. They are not only short but they compel you to reflect on humanity and being humane (not just human). Sample these :-

I AM NOT MY SKIN by Neema Komba

This is a heartrending piece which says it all for our albino, seruseru, brothers and sisters . The suspense is stiffling, the power of description gripping and the simplicity of language is just wonderfully pleasant. Beautifully written.

I am dying to know whether the writer is albino or has albino kin.

THE TEXTURE OF JOY ( A stowaway story) By Akwaeke Emezi

This is a unique story of a search for what satisfies the heart. You are forced to realize that no matter what happens to you, no matter the challenges you face and the circumstances you find yourself in, you will always get what you desire. Everything is hinged on how passionate you are.

The story is rather drab in some way ( so it appears to me) but it is worth your time.

I WAS NEVER THE QUIET ONE

( An interview with activist Gigi Louisa)

By John Kingsley 9

This is an exceptional exposition on our uniquely different brothers and sisters who have been endowed and gifted differently in special ways.

They have surely been misunderstood by most of us who are “normal”.

You are seemingly normal physically but perhaps maladjusted emotionally and probably mentally skewed in your worldview.

A NAIROBI BACHELOR WALKS INTO A MASSAGE SPA by Magunga Williams

This is a numbing suspense story which reminds the reader of libido matters, self control and the embarrassing moments one can easily cornered in.

You are sure to find yourself at the edge as the story unfolds. Check it out.

BAR TORE -THE KILLER OF LEOPARDS

By Kiprop Kimutai

This is a delightful read with a historical hue. It is a reminder of how the African self esteem was injured by colonialism.

Arap Amdany the main character turns out to be exceptionally heroic, though by default. His story is a journey of self discovery worth exploring. He reminds me of one Kintee Nepo Kipemkoi ( Chumyot) who was porter or ‘war hand’ of sorts during the First World War. (I will surely tell you his story some day)

On Saturday 6th May 2017, I found myself seated amidst a gathering of writing enthusiasts and book lovers. I had been invited to attend the 2017 Storymoja Festival Bloggers and Interns meeting, which I later learned was the first in a series of meetings leading up to the festival scheduled for 27th September to 1st October. Right from the time I was ushered to the modest Storymoja offices in Parklands, Nairobi, I observed and could feel that I was amongst very special people.

As the meeting got underway, I was drawn by the simplicity and down to earth mien of Faith the meeting coordinator. Wangari’s forthrightness or rather brutal honesty arrested me. But Juliet Maruru’s sense of humour put me in jail. Her revelations about lupus disease elongated my jail term.

I began to wonder where I have been that I was getting to know about lupus when I am just turning 48. There’s so much we all need to be in the know about but in one way or the other we don’t seem to have the time. Interestingly, there is enough time for Facebook gossip, Whatsapp propaganda, Twitter snipping and, of course, Sportpesa risking.

I find it worrying that most of our smartphones do not make us smart. Most of us preoccupy ourselves in fun and what’s so mundane that we fail to see and explore the possibilities these wonderful gadgets have to make our lives and the lives of those amongst and around us better.

Magunga of the The Magunga was perhaps unique in his own way . It wasn’t just about his unique hairstyle.The humility he exhibited was uniquely Magunga. I am yet to get the appropriate words to describe him.

As we approached the end of the day’s presentations, one Kibali Muriithi awakened the philosopher in me. His metaphysical snippets were irresistibly contagious. He had me locked in a reflective and meditative mode long after I boarded Mololine on my way back to Kabarnet.

The common bonding was unmistakably clear. The conveners of the meeting, the facilitators, bloggers and interns all radiated passion and a sense of purpose. I feel privileged to be in such company. It is not every day that you interact and work with such people. I am beginning to understand why Storymoja Festival, now 10 years old has grown from strength to strength.

* * * *

I pray that Juliet Maruru’s She Blossoms and Magunga William’s The Magunga are nominated in their respective categories in the 2017 Edition of BAKE (Bloggers Association of Kenya Awards)

As I listened to a radio interview one Tuesday night, a story idea which had played in my thoughts came to my conscious mind like an electric current surge. I had scribbled a sketch storyline in a piece of paper. Not being sure where I had kept it I found myself rummaging through my bedroom desk drawers.

My search turned out to be a sentimental reminder of my past: some supermarket receipts, long forgotten diaries, a Maasai Mara memento and other memorabilia and stuff. An unfamiliar purple notebook however attracted my attention. It could only be my wife’s. The handwriting confirmed my guess.

17th May 2011

“My mental anguish at the prospect of telling him the truth about Justin has eaten into my heart. I am not at peace. Yet peace and tranquility is all I ask God for. God!! ”

* * * *

That was three years ago. I, Angie and friends were having a good time, celebrating her birthday. But that was then. Why this secrecy now. Who is Justin? I flipped over……

* * * *

20th July 2011

“I know that I have been unfair. Having failed to disclose my complete orphan status and the truth about Justin is sickening me now. That in his deathbed my brother made me swear that should I get married and have children, I should name my first boy child Justin. Justin was our late mother’s he-goat. ”

I came back home earlier than usual. It had been a mentally draining and physically exhausting day. Unlike other days, I had no energy to engage Reagan in our routine father/son rituals. Tossing my jacket on the dining chair I literally fell on the couch and promptly went to sleep.

* * * * * *

Daddy is sleeping in the chair today.

I love my daddy.

He always makes me feel good and happy. He tickles my ears,nose. He comes when I am in the bathroom,scrubs me and feels the water with his hands,asks me to bathe like the cat. He makes me laugh and laugh and laugh.

He sprayed ma in the neck and in the stomach in the morning .

Ma laughed and laughed and laughed.

He is snoring now. And what is that sound!?….. I will get the spray and make daddy laugh like ma.

I saw it in the kitchen.

Psst!… Psst!….but he’s not laughing. He is turning. He is rubbing the nose. Turning, rubbing, turning….. He is coughing, not laughing. He is sneezing now, not laughing. Is he crying? Laughing? He is shouting!

* * * * * * * *

Ma Reagan rushed in to find her husband sprawled on the floor. The unusually bizarre shouting was enough to attract the most insensitive of neighbours.

* * * * * * * *

Initially Mrs Kudi took everything in her stride: children are children. The flip side in parenting. But with the deterioration of Reagan’s father her usually confident mien has bit by bit changed to cool and forced optimism.

It has been seven months and Mr Kudi is yet to utter a word. With every visit to the psychiatric ward Reagan is always bewildered by his father’s blank stare. Doesn’t understand why father no longer wants to laugh with him, with ma. He is even more confused at his mother’s reluctance to play with him like always.